The maiden Orielle stood upon the threshold, her silver hair cascading like a veil down her slender shoulders. The light of the blood moon washed her in soft crimson, her pale skin, porcelain touched by flame. Her gown was simple—woven linen embroidered with fading floral threads. Her deep green eyes flickered once, betraying her nerves, before she straightened her spine and steadied her breath.
Priestess Arril watched her from the courtyard, white robes blowing in the wind. The sight of the girl drew an ache from somewhere deep within her chest. After months of wandering, endless prayers, and temples filled with silence, the gods had finally led her here—to this quiet village where the river met the hills. She had not expected the warmth that stirred within her when she saw the maiden's face upon finding her a few days prior.
So young… so unguarded.How could such a flower match the poor cursed king. Arril's hand tightened around her staff. The gods offer no reasons for their will, only visions and omens. But Orielle—this girl and her almost mystical glow—was proof enough of their choosing. Even the air hummed faintly with divine resonance around her. She is no doubt the vessel to mend what has been torn asunder.
The villagers had gathered behind Priestess Arril, their expressions caught somewhere between awe and dread. The prophecy had haunted them for years, and now it stood at their door.
Arril stepped forward, her boots brushing the dew from the grass. The villagers parted like waves before her. The Orielle's fingers still clutched the wooden doorframe—trembling, just barely—but Arril saw the courage in her eyes.
"Child," she said, her voice calm and warm, the tone of one accustomed to reverence. "The oracle has named you. Orielle, the holy maiden. The gods have chosen our light. If you'd come with me; your path awaits."
Orielle's throat tightened. The words were heavy, remembering when the priest entered her home, as though she had been waiting for them her whole life. She stepped forward, each movement deliberate, careful not to let her knees shake or buckle under her nerves.
Arril lifted her hand and sprinkled blessed water over the girl's brow. It shimmered faintly as it touched her skin, then ran down her temple in a streak, drawing a symbol only the priests would understand. The priestess handed her the chalice—its rim carved with runes so old they had no translation.
Orielle took a sip. The liquid cold against her tongue, and swallowed hard.
Then she placed her hand in Arril's. The priestess now felt the tremor there, the nerves Orielle can't hide, despite her gentle and calm facade.
As they walked through the crowd, the people bowed their heads. Some wept in remembrance of the girl they watched growing up all these years. Others merely stared, as though watching a flower being cut from its stem.
From the edge of the gathering, Old Harlan leaned on his staff, his eyes misted with grief. Orielle… poor lass. I've known her since she could barely walk. Her father, Ulrich, doesn't even know yet. What would he say to return to his stolen daughter? that she's to be wed to that cursed king? May the gods have mercy.
A younger voice broke through the murmurs. "Orielle!"
Tomas, his face flushed with emotion, pushed through the line of villagers. His fists were clenched, his jaw trembling. She doesn't deserve this, he thought fiercely, clenching his fists. Orielle's always been kind. And now, taken? Just like that? What about the people that she loves? My brother... we didn't even get to say goodbye...
Orielle turned trying to find the call, then meeting his gaze. There was so much unsaid in that one look—I'm fine, take care of the others, I'll see you again.
Orielle's lips curved in a faint smile. It was reassurance. But also sincere.
Tomas's breath hitched. He turned and fled into the crowd before the tears could fall.
At the village's edge, the royal escort awaited—riders cloaked in indigo and silver, their horses restless beneath them. The sigil of the wolf gleamed on their breastplates, the emblem of House Bordhein.
Sir Kahiel dismounted first, the metallic scrape of his armor breaking the stillness. He removed his helm, revealing a face marked by years of battle—one scar tracing a line down from temple to jaw.
He bowed. "Priestess Arril," he said, voice deep and respectful. "The king sends his gratitude. The maiden will be guarded with our lives."
Arril inclined her head, still holding Orielle's hand. "They will see you safely to King Tirian. The journey is not long— through the Hollowed Woods and you'll be at the central kingdom of Eldoria. Do not be afraid, my child. You are under gods protection."
Kahiel's gaze shifted to Orielle. She seems so delicate, appraising her with a soldier's eye. Will she even survive the trip with that tiny body?
"My lady," he said, hesitating slightly, uncertain how to address one both future queen and chosen. "Your steed my lady..."
The black mare beside him snorted, its reins gleaming silver and red under the moon.
Orielle stepped forward, her composure wavering. "I… I don't think I can mount alone."
A flicker of surprise touched Kahiel's face before he stepped forward. "ah... of course, my lady. Let me assist you then"
He stepped closer, the scent of leather and steel closing in around her. Before she could speak, his hands found her waist, lifting her as though she weighed nothing. Orielle gasped, her dress catching the air and riding up. She squealed softly, fumbling to press it down as he set her atop the mare.
Sir Kahiel, unaware of her startled expression — or how near he'd come to scandal — only adjusted his hold, his focus only on the task.
Once she was seated, he handed her the reins. "Can you ride?"
Orielle still flushed, a half laugh escaping her lips. "you... never mind, I can ride a little... though, I wouldn't say I'm the best"
Kahiel's stern expression softened, though his voice remained formal. "Then keep close to me. The path through the Hollowed Woods is not kind to unseasoned travelers."
Arril placed her hand over her heart, murmuring a final blessing as well as a prayer. "Go with grace, Orielle. May the gods help shine a light on your path."
The escort began their journey beneath the fading glow of the blood moon.
*****
The Hollowed Woods were as silent as a tomb, Hours already passed, and now the air hung thick with mist, every branch glistening with morning dew. Orielle rode near Kahiel, her hands tight around the reins. She seemed eager to ask something—but each time she opened her mouth, the words failed her.
Kahiel rode ahead, scanning every corner, every possible hiding spot for a foe. His motion was practiced, controlled. He'd fought a hundred battles, seen men gutted beside him—and yet this duty unnerved him more than any war. Protecting... a mission unnatural to him. It was a weight he did not understand. Battlefields, where you are fighting to protect the kingdom yes, but it's alongside your comrades, each able to hold their own, this... this is new...
He turned to glance at her once more. She met his gaze briefly, then started to speak. There was something in her eyes—resolve,"What is the king li-".
her voice was cut off by a single whistle.
Then came the hiss of an arrow.
It struck the ground beside Orielle's horse, quivering. Orielle's hands flew up to her head as she leaned in the saddle of her horse, not knowing what just happened only, danger.
"Shields up!" Kahiel roared. "Protect her!"
The knights moved as one, shields rising to form a steel wall around her. Another volley rained down from above, and one found its mark—burying itself in the helm of young Sir Ronan. He fell with a dull thud, his blood pooling into the dust.
"No…" Kahiel's stomach twisted. He dismounted, instinct driving his body faster than thought. He seized the reins from Orielle's hands and swung onto her horse, pulling her close.
"Find them!" he barked. "Alive if you can! And bring any fallen's body!"
The mare surged forward, hooves pounding through the pass. The surviving knights followed close, blades drawn, their war cries echoing off the cliffs.
Orielle clung to the saddle, the world a blur of motion and noise. Her heart raced, her mind blank, but the fear of falling stronger than the arrows shooting past her.
Behind them, shadows darted among the rocks—assassins cloaked in black, their faces hidden.
But ahead, through the of fog, the spires of the Citadel rose at last.
*****
Within those walls, King Tirian Bordhein stood before a vast map spread across an oak table. The firelight traced the hard lines of his face—handsome, but now hardened and cold, carved by loss and duty.
He knew the truth behind the curse, the hidden wound that angered the gods. He had met every demand they required, carried out every act to atone for committed sins. To him, the prophecy was simply another campaign to wage, another task to conquer.
Torvax watched his kings face carefully. King Tirian's ruled alone with an unyielding grip, but this will be a trial all to new to him. I've seen him in the thick of it, commanding armies with a glance. Dealing with nuisances in one draw of the sword… what woman would not fear a man like that? He'll endure it, as he endures everything— for the throne, for Eldoria. But who knows what that maiden would do, would she run? or want power for herself?
"Your Majesty," said Torvax, bowing low. "We've received a message. The chosen is en route. She should arrive by midday tomorrow."
Tirian's eyes flicked up, unreadable. "...I see."
But inwardly, he felt the weight pressing against his chest, his mind turning to the inevitable. I really don't want to do this, he reflected. No... he shook off his own thought's as fast as they came. This is the only way, she will be what this kingdom needs, just as the gods decreed. A girl bound to a cursed king. Hah... What a merciless fate.
He turned to the map again, tracing the borderlines with one calloused finger. "How many men ride with her?"
"Twenty-five, led by Sir Kahiel, your majesty."
Tirian nodded. "Prepare ten more to meet them at the edge of the Woods. Things have been too quiet lately. I'll not risk another loss before she reaches the gates."
Torvax inclined his head. "As you command, my king."
When Torvax had gone, Tirian stood alone in the silence of the throne room. Beyond the stained glass, dawn broke over the Citadel, washing the dark stone in pale light.
He closed his eyes. May the maiden forgive me for what they've demanded of her.